I
George Peel and Mary, his wife, sat down to breakfast. Their only son,
Georgie, was already seated. George the younger showed an astounding
disregard for the decencies of life, and a frankly gluttonous absorption
in food which amounted to cynicism. Evidently he cared for nothing but
the satisfaction of bodily desires. Yet he was twenty-two months old,
and occupied a commanding situation in a high chair! His father and
mother were aged thirty-two and twenty-eight respectively. They both had
pale, intellectual faces; they were dressed with elegance, and their
gestures were the gestures of people accustomed to be waited upon and to
consider luxuries as necessaries. There was silver upon the table, and
the room, though small and somewhat disordered, had in it beautiful
things which had cost money. Through a doorway half-screened by a
portière could be seen a large studio peopled with heroic statuary,
plaster casts, and lumps of clay veiled in wet cloths. And on the other
side of the great window of the studio green trees waved their foliage.
The trees were in Regent's Park. Another detail to show that the Peels
had not precisely failed in life: the time was then ten-thirty o'clock!
Millions of persons in London had already been at hard work for hours.
And indeed George Peel was not merely a young sculptor of marked talent;
he was also a rising young sculptor. For instance, when you mentioned
his name in artistic circles the company signified that it knew whom
you meant, and those members of the company who had never seen his work
had to feel ashamed of themselves. Further, he had lately been awarded
the Triennial Gold Medal of the International Society, an honour that no
Englishman had previously achieved. His friends and himself had, by the
way, celebrated this dazzling event by a noble and joyous gathering in
the studio, at which famous personages had been present.
Everybody knew that George Peel, in addition to what he earned, had
important "private resources." For even rising young sculptors cannot
live luxuriously on what they gain, and you cannot eat gold medals. Nor
will gold medals pay a heavy rent or the cost of manual help in marble
cutting. All other rising young sculptors envied George Peel, and he
rather condescended to them (in his own mind) because they had to keep
up appearances by means of subterfuges, whereas there was no deception
about his large and ample existence.
On the table by Mary's plate was a letter, the sole letter. It had come
by the second post. The contents of the first post had been perused in
bed. While Mary was scraping porridge off the younger George's bib with
a spoon, and wiping porridge out of his eyes with a serviette, George
the elder gave just a glance at the letter.
"So he has written after all!" said George, in a voice that tried to be
nonchalant.
"Who?" asked Mary, although she had already seen the envelope, and knew
exactly what George meant. And her voice also was unnatural in its
attempted casualness.
"The old cock," said George, beginning to serve bacon.
"Oh!" said Mary, coming to her chair, and beginning to dispense tea.
She was dying to open the letter, yet she poured out the tea with
superhuman leisureliness, and then indicated to Georgie exactly where to
search for bits of porridge on his big plate, while George with a great
appearance of calm unfolded a newspaper. Then at length she did open the
letter. Having read it, she put her lips tighter together, nodded, and
passed the letter to George. And George read:
"DEAR MARY,--I cannot accede to your request.--Your affectionate uncle,
SAMUEL PEEL.
"_P.S._--The expenses connected with my County Council election will be
terrible. S.P."
George lifted his eyebrows, as if to indicate that in his opinion there
was no accounting for the wild stupidity of human nature, and that he as
a philosopher refused to be startled by anything whatever.
"Curt!" he muttered coldly.
Mary uneasily laughed.
"What shall you do?" she inquired.
"Without!" replied George, with a curtness that equalled Mary's uncle's.
"And what about the rent?"
"The rent will have to wait."
A brave young man! Nevertheless he saw in that moment chasms at his
feet--chasms in which he and his wife and child and his brilliant
prospects might be swallowed up. He changed the subject.
"You didn't see this cutting," he said, and passed a slip from a
newspaper gummed to a piece of green paper.
George, in his quality of rising young sculptor, received Press cuttings
from an agency. This one was from a somewhat vulgar Society journal, and
it gave, in two paragraphs, an account of the recent festivity at
George's studio. It finished with the words: "Heidsieck flowed freely."
He could not guess who had written it. No! It was not in the nicest
taste, but it furnished indubitable proof that George was still rising,
that he was a figure in the world. "What a rag!" he observed, with an
explosion of repugnance. "Read by suburban shop-girls, I suppose."